The Reason for Drycleaners
by Besina
Summary: Things that happen when Sherlock refuses to go out. Pure crack!Fic.


Sherlock's coat and scarf hung glumly on their hooks. They hadn't been out in days. Sherlock had contented himself swirling around the flat dramatically in that overly-smug dressing gown of his. All silk and swishy, and tauntingly pleased with itself at the near exclusivity it currently enjoyed of its wearer.

"Who does it think it is, anyway?" grumbled the coat.

"Now now," soothed the scarf, "we all know you're used to being the one in the limelight. Let the dressing gown have some time in the sun."

"But it's been _three days!_" moped the coat, sadly. "And the weather's been _just right_ for us! Cold enough to wear, ... to…" it shuddered briefly, "…flip my collar up. But not cold enough to button." It sighed, "Perfect twirling weather."

"I know, I've missed his neck too, his hands as well, but well, you know… that neck. I'm a designer scarf, trust me, I know how you feel."

"Of course you do," replied the coat smugly, "you're always riding atop or inside my collar." An inadvertent shiver ran through the coat.

"What was that?" inquired the scarf.

"Just cold," evaded the coat.

"You're _wool_, you don't _get_ cold." The scarf slithered indolently down from its higher perch to wrap itself around the coat's collar. The coat involuntarily shivered again, rather giving itself away. The stitching around its top buttonhole glowed an even brighter red.

"You _like_ me!" exclaimed the scarf. "You get a _thrill_ rubbing up against me when he runs, don't you? When he puts me on and _slides_ me up against you?"

The coat mumbled something and twisted away as far as it could on the hook.

"Shh…Hey, it's okay," soothed the scarf, draping itself down over the coat's shoulder, gently rubbing against the rougher fabric. I… I kinda dig you too." The scarf looked embarrassed.

"It…it's not _right_," mumbled the coat. "The other coats might, y'know…talk," it said glancing at John's black jacket thrown carelessly across the living room chair.

"Coats do little else," chided the scarf, a hint of mischief in its tassels. "Besides, I've heard the guy who wears _that one_ enjoys rubbing the insides of his with Semtex. Really, it's got no reason to act prudish."

"That was another coat."

"Same wearer," purred the scarf, slowly winding itself down around the sleeve.

The cashmere felt _good, _he couldn't deny that, all soft and warm against his rough exterior – it was doing crazy things to his lining.

As the scarf made its way down to his cuff, the cuff pulled away, turning into itself a bit.

"Trust me," whispered the scarf, "you'll like it…I'll take it slow." Little by little, the scarf teased the cuff back out, til eventually it hung open, panting and ready.

"You like it when he puts his arms in you, don't you?" asked the scarf.

The coat moaned in the affirmative.

"This is like that, only I'm not so rough. I'll take my time with you, I promise."

The coat shuddered as the scarf slowly inched its way into its sleeve. It _did_ feel wonderful, all warm and _fuzzy_, sliding against his smooth lining. He felt the scarf squirm and moan inside him.

"You're wonderfully slick in here," it moaned, "and so warm!"

"That's the satin," breathed the coat, shuddering as the scarf made its way deeper – it was almost to the shoulder now.

"OHHHH!" moaned the coat, nearly unable to contain itself.

"Wait til I get to the other sleeve," teased the scarf.

"I…I…" gasped the coat. The scarf felt him starting to button up, and renewed his efforts pushing deeper inside the sleeve, briefly breaching the other shoulder.

"AH! AH! AAAUGH!" The coat shuddered, its buttons flew across the room; business cards, pens and lock-picks exploding from its pockets, then slid into a dishevelled heap onto the floor; puffs of cashmere fluff appearing from the coat sleeves and neck as the scarf shivered into its own ecstatic conclusion.

* * *

><p>Sherlock entered the room and stopped. Something wasn't right. Something out of place. His eyes quickly alighted on his coat and scarf, now crumpled in a heap on the floor; the coat missing quite a few buttons. Someone had obviously been going through his pockets as well.<p>

He swooped down to pick everything up and hung the garments back on their hooks.

"Perverts," mocked the dressing gown.

"Shut up," said the coat, "we know all about you and the flannel."

This served to quiet the dressing gown quite effectively.

Sherlock stood, buttons and business cards in hand, wondering what in the world could have managed to set off his flatmate in such a way? John was usually quite docile. He searched his recent memory of conversations they'd had, but couldn't think of anything he'd said that had been overly not-good. He'd have to apologize somehow tonight and try to ferret out exactly what he'd done. Perhaps he'd call out for Chinese. John liked Chinese.

* * *

><p>The deerstalker, perched precariously on the mantelpiece, looked horrified. Still, at least those two got out. He'd only been placed on those luscious curls once, before being discarded here.<p>

He glanced sidelong down the mantelpiece. _Well_, he thought, _might be worth a try_. He briefly worked his way down to the skull and introduced himself.

* * *

><p>Thanks for reading! I can be found on Tumblr as BesinaAo3<p>

Please do not repost this work or make it available for download on any other site.  
>For translation permissions, please see my AO3 profile - username Besina<p> 


End file.
